The Prurience of Pain
by Pandorama
Summary: Prurience: an inclination toward lewdness or lustfulness; lustful behavior  House/Cuddy


A/N: This is a oneshot. Any requests/encouragement for updates will cause me to bang my head against the wall in frustration and may actually cause me to write spiteful Hameron/Luddy fics. You've been warned.

**_prurience, pruriency:_**  
an inclination toward lewdness or lustfulness; lustful behavior

* * *

**The Prurience of Pain**

Even in his most lascivious dreams about her, he is crippled. It's as though his psyche is hell-bent on reminding him that he can never truly escape his handicap, even when he is far-removed enough from reality to elicit agreement from her on the subject of sex in her office.

Which is saying something, given her stance on it in the waking world.

He shoves the heel of his hand into his scar and contemplates her motives for today's undergarment of choice.

The purple bra is new: she'd bought it on sale last week with matching panties and a new choice article that had caused blood flow to his brain to be halted for a good half hour when he'd seen it – and only in preview, at that. Whenever it would be that she'd actually wear it, he expects he'll lost neural function entirely. For now, though, the image of her dangling it like bait in front of him coupled with the glimpse of violet when she moves just the right way is enough to redirect a solid couple of pints southward, and it's making it even more difficult than usual to walk.

The sensuality and sexuality of Lisa Cuddy is, literally, painful.

He entertains fantasies of remedying that, but they're just that: fantasies. Even in some parallel universe where she'd agree to fuck him on hospital premises, it's not as though he actually could. He's fifty-one (and a half, Rachel would have him note) and he's crippled, and despite how flexible _she_ is, it's still a struggle for him to do it anywhere but on the bed.

He supposes he shouldn't complain: their average currently stands at one and a third times a day, although it's distributed unevenly, with most of the fucking done on Fridays and Saturdays. He knows the perception around the hospital is that they're doing it like rabbits, behind the closed doors of her office, in the MRI machine and sleep lab, probably her car, but the reality of the situation is that they both work long hours, she has a kid, and he has pain. Of course, if he factors in hand and blow jobs, the stats increase markedly. They're about even, although – and this surprises even him – she tends to be a bit higher on the giving end. She has an almost compulsive need to get him off when he's in pain, probably because she thinks nothing else works. He hasn't worked up either the courage or the masochistic desire to end free blow jobs to tell her that, most of the time, just her being there is enough to take the edge off.

But still, the want is there to be young and able, again, to take advantage of the lithe Lisa Cuddy, whom he suspects is one of the four people on the planet physically capable of doing all the positions in the Kama Sutra. And who, with just a peek at her bra, is able to spark a desire in him to cut off his own leg with a plastic knife just for the chance to screw her standing up.

He's not sure how exactly that would work, but when he sees that silky edge, he thinks he might be willing to figure it out.

"House."

His thoughts are interrupted by the purple-clad vixen, hovering over him as he reclines in his Eames, her arms akimbo and lips pursed. He lets his eyes loll upward and pretends to be thinking of anything but what he is.

"You're supposed to be in the clinic."

"Not what you said last night." He doesn't miss a beat. "In fact, I believe the agreement was that if I would 'shut up and do that thing with my – '"

"House." He can tell from the tone of her voice that she's on edge, and he automatically racks his brain, trying to recall if it's something he's done, personally.

Nothing registers, although it wouldn't be the first time she's blamed him for something he didn't do.

"Masters and Taub are doubling up on my time. Foreman's with the patient and Chase is in the lab."

"I don't pay you to sit around while your team does the work for you." She frowns and seems about to suggest something for him to do when her eyes drop to his lap, where his palm is still pressed into his leg, the tips of his fingers white from the pressure he's applying. Her face softens slightly and, as much as he hates to admit it, there's something sexy about the face she makes when she pities him.

Or maybe it's just a conditioned response from what sometimes comes next.

"I'm just waiting for the bloodwork." He doesn't know why he's trying to deflect, because it's not as though he can fool her. "The kids'll be back for snack time and brainstorming soon."

She sighs and he thinks she's accepted his statement until she turns and closes the door and draws the blinds. "How bad?"

"Seriously?"

"I just…" Her cheeks flush. "I was going to offer –"

"Jesus, Cuddy." He's angry, almost irrationally so, because how _dare_ she offer to blow him at work. Not like this. Not when he's been dreaming about it for almost a decade, about all the scenarios and positions and outfits, and she's offering to get him off because his fucking leg is sore. "Just drop it."

She looks like she wants to say something, like she wants to ask why he's so upset over this, but he doesn't want to explain and she either loses the nerve or the desire and slips silently out the door.

He watches her walk away, head down, face still red, and he almost feels bad for her.

* * *

He broods about it, because he's him and brooding is what he does, and he's not surprised when it makes the pain worse. He's not sure which bothers him more: that she's finally changed her position on office intercourse out of pity or that he never actually thought of using pity to coerce her.

The patient is dead before sundown, and even though he knows there was nothing he could have done to stop it, another layer of ache settles in his thigh.

He wishes he could bury the nagging feelings he has over it and retract his refusal, but pride is a deadly sin and he is eternally guilty of all seven.

The answer to his quandary comes to him like one of his epiphanies: off something Wilson says. House isn't entirely sure how the conversation got started because he was focused more on the sensation of flames engulfing his thigh but something about proverbs and the Golden Rule and then it dawns on him that it's better to give than to receive.

It's also on his terms, which appeals to him.

Cuddy is predictably elbow-deep in paperwork and barely notices House barge in or lock the door, but she looks up when the blinds rattle closed and arches one pristinely plucked eyebrow. "Did I miss something?"

"Nope." He crosses the room with some difficulty and yanks back her chair.

She yelps and leaps up. "What are you doing?"

"If we're going to make work sex a thing, I've decided it's going to be ladies first."

"I'm sorry?"

"So you said." He walks her back against the wall and yanks up the hem of her skirt with no fanfare whatsoever. He doesn't know if she's just that shocked or if she's been sitting here stewing over it and getting herself hot and bothered, but she doesn't protest. "The nylons are going to be a problem."

She stares at him, apparently making up her mind, but whatever decision she comes to involves sliding off her heels and obediently peeling off her stockings. She hangs them on the back of her chair in a perfect union of sexy and neurotic. "Okay."

"Put the heels back on."

"Bad idea." She gazes at him coolly. "I'm not in the mood to break my ankle because my boyfriend fingered me with my Jimmy Choos on."

He decides that's the hottest thing he's ever heard her say and knows it's obvious from the way he shifts around. He also decides he's putting his foot down on this one. "You're too short otherwise."

"So we'll move to the couch."

"And then the next person who sits there will want to know why it smells like spunk."

She rolls her eyes. "This is going to end up with both of us on the floor and in pain."

"Yeah, but it'll be worth it."

The heels go back on and she leans against the wall and looks at him expectantly. The wolfish grin he gives her is met with a lopsided, almost slutty one and he hikes her skirt up again and pushes the strip of fabric he knows is purple aside. Some days he'd include her panties in the fun, but right now, he's not in the mood for slow and sensual, he's in the mood to get her off hard and fast and messy and in her office at work.

Her hips immediately tilt forward so that her abdomen hits the bulge in his jeans and he hisses at the contact and hooks his index finger inside. Funny how he can do that, he thinks, keep a woman who is otherwise in constant motion in place with one finger. He slips in a second, just for good measure. She squeaks, and there's a soft thud from her head hitting the wall.

He reaches up and splays five free fingers across her crown so his knuckles are pressed against the wall. "Better?"

She nods.

"Wouldn't want to _literally_ fuck you stupid."

Her laughter is breathy and her cheeks are red. He slides his thumb up and down over her clitoris and then in circles and strokes her from within. Her spine straightens and she looks at the ceiling and her voice comes out a whisper. "House."

"I like it better when you call me 'God.'"

He doesn't know if that old adage about banter being nothing but foreplay is true with other people, but in their case, it's accurate. They don't need dirty talk when they have this, and he thinks back on seven years of them sparring with one another and wonders how she never got knocked up from that alone. He was losing sperm at a rapid enough rate to impregnate her at least a dozen times.

"I'm going to – "

"I know." He loves the implications of her coming so quickly and the fact that her thighs are slick makes him wish once again she hadn't found the security camera he had installed in the corner because he'd give his good leg to have seen her squirming around in her chair for the past five hours.

She throws her head to the side and arches her back, shoving her breasts against his chest and he thinks there might be no greater sight in the world than watching Lisa Cuddy orgasm, except maybe watching her while he does, too. Which he does, thanks to the friction between them and the feeling of her clenching around his fingers and the fact that he's been halfway hard since before lunch.

And he's a little surprised to realize that this is a thousand times better than all the fantasies he's had, because it's real, and more so because it's them: difficult and tense and a little bit awkward and his leg aches and it's insanely, incredibly hot. He may not be able to bend her over her desk or take her on his conference table, but he can sure as hell finger her in her office if he catches her in just the right mood.

And now that he knows which one that is, he decides this is going to become a regular thing.


End file.
